


Two-Faced

by legaldead



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Just kinda reincarnating shenanigans, No beta- we die like men, Not Really Character Death, Not too shippy just implied, Salem is referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legaldead/pseuds/legaldead
Summary: He would rather be alone because it's scary, but its solace in the fact that no one will see the last ebb of vulnerability leave him. No one will carry the guilt of him dying in their arms. He will move on, he will return, and no one will remember the light fading from his eyes.Or,Ozpin lives many lives, with familiar souls following him through each. Yet, he still can't shake a desperate urge for isolation.





	Two-Faced

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for reading! This is a canon divergent AU type deal, it just happens that a few AUs are mixed in, not just one. If you need help with understanding names, I'll leave a little guide down at the end!

> ev·o·lu·tion   
>  evəˈlo͞oSH(ə)n
> 
> noun   
>  1\. The gradual development of something, especially from a simple to a more complex form.   
>  _ "The forms of written languages undergo constant evolution." _ _  
>  _ synonyms: a man so convoluted that reality is no longer fact but rather a construct he has to play by.

* * *

The orange hues of a morning sky compliments the dew beading up on the various herbs potted along his windowsill. He doesn't think much of the morning, just like any other really, as he ghosts fingertips along the rosemary he kept.

His name is Osiris, this time. It's a rather nice name, but it doesn't matter much to him- most of his companions just call him ‘Oz’ anyway. It was some sort of inside joke that he knows of but doesn't quite remember. The rustle of movement guides his attention to the new presence in the room, which was expected but new nonetheless. “What's caught your eye this time, Oz?” The curiously humming tone of his rather serious friend questions. They both know full well this was a jab at his drifting concentration that he's had all morning even despite the work that had to be done. 

A caw from a particularly familiar bird settles a small bud of amused irony into his expression. “Nothing, nothing. I just think today's going to be a rather lucky day.” He sighs, warm brown eyes flickering to catch a glimpse of a ruffled looking bird sizing him up. A ghost of a smile curls into his expression, barely there but given away by the slight dimpling of his cheeks. He opens the window with languid movement as he sways to stand beside his unimpressed friend. Her name was Gloria this time, which is rather fitting in his opinion. It means the obvious- Glory, renown and respect. All things she rightfully deserves for her work ethic. On the other hand-

In a flurry of feathers and the pungent of some sort of ale the pub in the market place sold, came the disoriented but leering figure of Oz’s familiar. One hand bracing himself on the counter as he rights himself, and the other smoothing loose feathers from his hair, he gives a small glare to the two witches before him. “You locked me out.” He starts accusingly. 

“You didn't seem to mind.” Gloria responds just as sharply, but a small wave of Oz’s hand seems to bring her mood to a simmer… or rather just encourages her to hold her tongue. “Forgive me, it was my idea foremost. I wanted to get something ready and it's method isn't something you would have approved of, if I'm completely honest.” Oz’s voice is similar in many ways to his past, but also quite different. It carries a tone to it only he could acquire, an assured calmness broken only in peculiar situations. It only seems to ruffle his familiars feathers even more. 

“What do you mean by that,” A step towards Oz earns a small look of stifled amusement, a quirked brow from Gloria in a more demeaning sense. “Oz, you can't afford to be reckless.” His expression sharpens slightly at that, Oz’s gaze growing irritated- patience was a virtue he had yet to learn, his familiar at least recognizing a fault in his step as he goes quiet at the shift in atmosphere. 

“I suppose your definition of reckless varies. I saw an opportunity and I took it, Qrow.” Hm. Yes, that's always a name that follows. Not a true name but always a nickname that trends at the very least. Gloria seems to have gone silent, making use of herself. Oz didn't think arguments were that frequent but with Gloria's quick action to exclude herself, maybe he was mistaken. Oz continues despite this.

“It was my decision.” 

Qrow’s expression darkens, and in times like these his inhuman features really spark interest. 

“It's not just you and Salem, anymore. It's us, too. It's been us, too, since you brought me, Gloria, everyone into this mess.”

Qrow pauses, merely watching Oz for a tense moment before he continues.

“Then again, that was your decision, too, wasn't it?”

* * *

His name is Osborn, this time, and the mask he wears now is much prettier then the mask he presents outwardly on a daily basis. Of course, he didn't expect any different, an earl of high status was obligated to keep a pristine appearance- to set an example and show status. A masquerade ball set the scene, held for charity and general bragging rights people seemed so fond of.

Gracia,  _ (Gloria, Gwen, Greta, there's so many names,)  _ previously fussing over Osborn’s tie was occupied in quiet bickering with her fiance. The relationship was amusing, a royal adviser fussing over her rather renowned husband. Osborn muses over which occupation really got him to that fame, the inventions he made or his mechanic prowess. It's all the tin-man seems to talk about, his own indulgences in the mechanical field- not that the earl could say much in regards to that.

With his hands folded behind his back, he acknowledges the detachment given. Gracia glances back at him while her fiance leads her away by open hand. A soft nod washes away hesitation, heels clicking with each step instead of dragging slowly to buy time. His gaze turns away from the happy couple to the crowd.

It was a ball, which was both delightful and fear inspiring. Masked individuals dressed in vibrant colors, mixing and twirling among each other on the dance floor. Reds, whites, blacks, and yellows among other eye catching designs led to his gaze resting on the constantly moving mass of people. 

“Lemme guess, rich folk like you don't dance?” The rumbling husked tone, slurred with drunken amusement earned a sharp tension in his posture, his attention snapping to the tall man that somehow found his way beside him with as much stealth as any predator Osborn could've been expecting. 

It's always on his mind now, with each failure, she creeps into the edges of his consciousness. Sinking nails into his forethought and biting chunks from his capacity to trust. He carries this burden alone this time. Gracia lives happy without acknowledgement of any falsities.

“I don't like the crowd.” He replies easily, fluidly, a well built lie he used commonly. He studies the mask the stranger wore for a moment, the black defining against sharp features, feathers drawing his attention in a familiar manner before his gaze draws back to the swirling mass of fabric and eager limbs. 

“‘S not so bad. I've seen worse.” Was the reply he got, which earned a small huff. Osborn glances in the direction of his currently conversation partner with passive amusement as he brings his glass of presumably alcohol to his lips. He regards him for a moment, releasing his hands from behind his back. 

“Perhaps, you'll have to prove that.” Osborn questions, curiosity ebbing in the quiet of his voice. “I.. don't dance.” The stranger hummed as he finishes the cup. “I think I've held more fights then danced to any rhythm.” 

Osborn smoothly drops his hand. He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You know, if you think about it, fighting and dancing aren't so different-.. but I guess you'd be too much of a-” He gives a smile- he can't help it. It's small, barely dimpling his cheeks but the amusement is palpable in his voice. “- _chicken_ to test that theory?”

He can almost see the sputtering pause, the light joke seemingly unexpected. “..Is that a challenge?” Osborn's smile grows. “If you take it as so, then absolutely.” 

“Alright then, odd one. You can call me Qrow.”

His smile doesn't waver, but after the first dance he excuses himself. 

He carries his burden alone this time.

* * *

 

He runs through the loop of this system quick enough that sometimes he ponders the little ripples of childhood memories that sway in his brain and question the reality of them. He's quick this time. Her name is Genevieve, her quiet companion is named Benipé _ (Later, he found it to mean ‘iron’ and couldn't quite understand if he was amused or spiraling into a depression from it,)  _ and his name? 

He was Osaze, and in a case of eager irony to rub salt into wound, he finds himself ordained to the very gods that cursed him. He's the last to roam the pews for the night, thumbing over rosary beads as he cleans with a brewing calm resting in the warm pit of his chest. 

His teachings were simple. His burden dreary, and his attachments brief and burned at the base when the connection itched paranoia into his mind. It's why Genevieve was currently giving him the silent treatment, it's why Benipé never liked him in the first place.

It was well past time to go home, yet he remained fussing over little details. Gather a bible in hand as he paced to another side of the room, carefully shuffling the holy text into place by a replica scripture and all among his busywork the door opens. He can tell by the cool breeze and whistle of wind from the winter's storm edging closer.

There is no ‘we’re closed.’ There wasn't a point, the Gods welcomed all, and Osaze obviously wasn't going anywhere, so, he turned on foot, catching sight of the newcomer. Osaze finds himself struck silent for a moment or so, confusion, wariness and then a settling suspicion writhing in his gut.

“... Excuse me, sir, are you under the influence?” 

A rough huff of laughter escaped the newcomer. “Are you gonna throw me out if I say yes?” The pause of silence spoke more than any expression of hesitant thought could have, a quirked brow and an unimpressed look crossed the newcomers features. “A-”

“No, the storms too much of a threat to send you out.” Osaze responded finally, giving a small amused look, like he remembered this from somewhere else. He might have, in all honesty. Remembered a familiar feeling but never exact images. His fingers thrummed against one of the Bible's still in his grip. “You may stay, though out of obligation I have to ask how I can help you.” He hummed absently. 

He could feel the strangers gaze burning into him as he turned to finally put the Bible he held back onto the shelf from where he adjusted it from.

“No. I'm not here for advice from some fucking priest.” A pause, and then a fainter. “No offense.” Hesitance. 

Osaze actually laughs, the poor guy couldn't be much younger then him seemed more like an angst-y teen then- ..His laughter fades a bit. He really shouldn't judge. “I can respect that.” He clears, before rolling his shoulders and giving a stretch that he can sign into. 

“What about hypothetically?” He prompts, because when he turns to move closer he can practically taste the alcohol in air- leaving him wondering how this guy is really holding his own. “Hypothetically?” Curiosity crossed the strangers tone lazily. “What if, hypothetically, there was a problem I could help with?” 

This groused a small noise from the drunken man, who finally settled himself down on one of the church benches. He watches Osaze, who merely gives as best a soothing smile as he can, which was rather well given the experience he has of faking expressions.

“Well, Oz,-” Osaze’s heart briefly stutters. “hypothetically, let's say magic is real.” Osaze’s heart nearly stops. He watches the familiar stranger pull out a small necklace from his pocket and dally his fingers over the gemstone tied to it. Oz witnesses red veins worm against pale skin with each new point of contact. His familiar friend doesn't notice.

“Apparently-”

“I'm sorry.”

The apology earns a small blink, before confusion settles in. Osaze’s jovial expression is written with muted guilt and hopelessness. 

“I'm so sorry, Qrow.” 

* * *

 

He could write a million letters, and sob thousands of begging syllables, but Ozur thinks the language of flowers will suit him much more. He decides he likes the name Ozur, despite the fragility of its stay. Death is perpetual, ever creeping, and whether sooner or later, this name will too be filed away and forgotten. 

Call him foolish, but the tired ache of his soul urges a selfish sort of laziness to settle in his bones. A laziness that keeps him confined to a personal life, where battles are less fought and friendships are kept close to the heart. A laziness that makes him feel part way human.

He ghosts fingertips over the delicately soft petals of the honeysuckle he has newly grown. He reminisces the meaning of happiness that follows the sweet scent only belonging to this blossom, and adamantly refuses the acknowledgement that his paranoia influenced his craving for this flower to remain in his garden. After all, while honeysuckle is rumored to protect from evil, he had no reason to fear. His fingers twitch a moment over the stem of the blossom, before he snaps it rather unprofessionally, and pulls away to twirl the bloom in his fingers. 

He owns a local flower shop, a popular one at that, and he thinks that maybe he’s happy. He has regulars, such as Jaimeson with his wife Georgia. They come by often, Georgia slowly becoming a close friend as easily as slotting in a missing puzzle piece, and Jaimeson often buying flowers for Georgia for various reasons. 

Gifts for reasons a-plenty, and occasionally out of pure pity, Ozur gives him a discount. He thinks that's the only reason Jaimeson doesn’t outright hate him this go around. 

Yes, he knows who they are, but issues are left settled in the dirt grave they writhe in, and Ozur is convinced that it should stay that way. He picks absently at the petals of the white flower, the scent sticking to his fingers as he shifts around the cute store to reach the counter. 

“I didn’t think floral freaks would be so careless in tearing their shit apart.” 

Ozur physically jolts, earning a snort from the stranger he should have-  _ (should have, should have,) _ heard come in. There was a bell on the door. Had he truly been that out of it? He crushes what's left of honeysuckle in the ball of his fist, his gaze turning in a sharp glare to the stranger. “Assumptions only make an ass out of you and me.” He speaks clearly, a recited insult that just about everyone knows. Unoriginal. 

It still earns a small smirk from the man leaning against his counter. He’s dressed dark, red eyes piercing in vibrance, and deja vu curls like a dead weight in the back of Ozur’s throat. “I apologize. I’m Ozur, how can I help you?” He speaks, like a robot running code as he defaults to what he knows best this run through. 

Amusement fades as passivity is replaced with professionalism. “I need some.. uh, flowers.” Ozur can’t seem to stop the pure impulse response of “I’d sure hope so,” before it tones in what could only be read as a small lilt. Professionalism dampens, and the familiar mans expression raises from soured to bitter sweet. Deep down, Ozur knows why that look hurts. 

“Right, right. Its for my… friend. His significant other died recently.” Ozur waits a beat before realizing he’s not getting anymore information. He nods, fingers thrumming as he thinks a few moments more, letting a green aura warm his still balled fist, the feeling reminiscent to something just dull of pins and needles before he quietly places the fully revived honeysuckle onto the counter as he rounds it to access something he remembers just barely being back counter. 

He gets no comment, but can feel the heat haze of eyes tracing his movements. “Is there anything else you can tell me? About her, maybe?” Ozur asks in a tone both soft but casual. He’s not pitying the man, but he refuses to be anything close to harsh. Silence follows, and Ozur finds himself glancing back to the man to make sure he’s still present. He blinks, not quite expecting complete eye contact, but it’s quickly broken as a sigh escapes his customer. 

“She was strong. The glue that held us together.” His voice is clipped, distant, and Ozur can feel the ache that the familiar soul seems to keep locked behind steel walls for later times. Ozur looks away. “Sh-”    
  
“It’s okay, I think I have an idea.” 

Silence falls, and eventually Ozur finds what he wants. He picks a few, carefully arranging them with obligatory baby's breath blooms, just to suit the bouquet better. 

“Can I have you name to properly fill out the order?” Ozur asks as he prepares, avoiding pricked fingers with learned skill, dethorning the stems. “Just put down Qrow.”

“Like the bird?” Ozur no longer finds hesitance. Too routine in finding familiar faces over and over. He gets a small laugh. “Yeah. Sure.” 

He doesn’t catch Qrows expression when he presents the bouquet. He does hear breath catch, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he explains.    
  
“White roses can mean sympathy.” He hums, sliding behind the counter and beginning to type something into the register. “They can also represent honor and reverence.” He continues, and his fingers hover for a second, glancing up to Qrow. 

Qrow seems entirely taken by the white petals, running ink stained fingers over the pure color, not marveling but definitely absent from the conversation now. Ozur decidedly adds a small discount. He hopes Qrow doesn’t notice. 

“Sir, y-” Qrow’s gaze snaps up blearily to Ozur before he gives a faint ‘oh’ and pulls out his wallet. He hands over his card. Ozur goes through the works, prints the receipt and hands both his card and the receipt over. 

Qrow’s gaze lazily trails over how his name is spelled.  
  
Q. R. O. W.

Like the bird. Right.

Ozur meets Qrows gaze in silence when he looks up from the receipt. “Thank you.” Qrow speaks after a moment. “It’s my pleasure. Have a nice day.” A hum of acknowledgement is given, footsteps trail away from the counter.. And pause. Ozur quirks an eyebrow and returns his gaze to Qrow. He’s greeted with a crooked grin. 

“You should come by my parlor one day. I’m your neighbor after all.” Ozur blinks. 

And blinks again. 

“ _ You _ own the tattoo parlor?” Despite his tone… Ozur isn't too surprised. 

* * *

 

There’s no way he would remember this, no, but somewhere within the depths of an unremarkable timeline, he’s a college student with the name Ozzie. He’s roommates with a familiar man nicknamed Qrow, and his two other flatmates go by Jayme and Gladis. 

He’s kept care of, with friends patiently by his side, and a failure waiting to happen merely following in silent step instead of blaring siren. 

Gladis was out, probably studying, probably working, but Jaymes had kept his whereabouts silent. Qrow and Ozzie were left to themselves, and on strike of luck, the stillness of the flat leads them to a uncommon situation. 

Within the confines of the common room, Qrow lay, lazily watching a show with legs tangled and arms wrapped around the one and only Oz, who finally caught himself in something close to restful sleep. The warmth brought comfort, and no one was surprised to find that Oz was...quite the cuddler. 

His face was hidden within the crook of Qrows neck, arms resting lax, one hanging off the couch, the other resting up, having fallen slack after falling asleep while playing with his dear companions hair. His legs tangled with Qrows, his breathing slow and soft, and for once.

Just once, he was at peace.

He would not remember this moment, but Jaymes would show soon, and something close to defensiveness would rear its ugly head in a moment so content in Qrows body language.

“Why are you two still in the living room?” Jaymes asks, with no concept of volume, or maybe common courtesy even as he stares into Qrows narrowed gaze like one would fearlessly glare down the barrel of a gun. He doesn’t comment on how it’s Ozzie’s back pocket in his jeans that Qrow pulls a knife from, instead both unimpressed and alarmed that Qrow had pulled a knife in the first place.

Jaymes watches the blade slide up into place with a flick of Qrows wrist.

For once, with a survey of the room, Jaymes glares at Qrow and…takes the hint.

* * *

 

His name is Ozpin, and a familiar crow had fluttered to his side. He wonders briefly if his semblance was creeping in, or if he was truly far gone as movements seem to slow. The descent of flight took hours  _ ( ~~seconds~~ )  _ and the transformation lasted what felt like so much longer. Ozpin wants to say he feels regret, or despair, or something- but he doesn’t. 

Instead, there is a void in his gut, and a numbness that weighs down like lead on his shoulders. 

He’s bleeding, somewhere, and he doesn’t really mind. He’s burned plenty, but he doesn’t really mind. He thinks Qrow does though. He hasn’t seen an expression like this before or maybe he has and it just wasn't that often. Fear wasn’t usually visible on Qrow. Ozpin doesn’t like it.

He’s not even sitting up, no, just splayed out on the rubble, head lolled to the side from both lack of strength and will to see Qrow as he drops down to his knees and gathers Ozpin up like a rag doll into his lap. “Oz? Can you hear me?” 

“..Not so loud..” Came the mumbled reply. It might have been funny in any other situation. He blinks blearily up at the figure that swam in his vision. “You need to go.. Help the others.” He sighs quietly, and his passive expression melts into a icky, confused frown when nothing is done to follow the request. “Qrow..” He’s met with silence, and he’s beginning to wonder if Qrow is really there at all. Maybe, he’s just hallucinating. Maybe.  _ Maybe. _

“Oz, I need to get you out of here.” 

Maybe not. 

“You can’t.” He’s blunt, because he has to be. Because he’s done this before. Because it always hurts but it's always the same. “Just take.. M-my..” Ozpin swallows hard, ignoring the distinct taste of pennies and the way his throat burns like he's been breathing in smoke for hours. “Cane.” He finally finishes. “Go..help the others.” Ozpin doesn’t say he will be fine.

He won't be. 

“I can get you out of here, just let me, pl-”  
  
“Mr. Branwen, we both know that you cannot do that.” Ozpin's eyes are almost closed, because he's tired. Tired. So tired, it's audible in the crackle of his voice. “Do not make empty promises to yourself.” He hums in a hush so faint that Ozpin wonders for a brief second if he really said it at all.

“Oz..” The voice that responds is distant and drawling in something choked up and close to angry. 

Ozpin's gaze flickers up to Qrow, quietly wondering if he was really so affected by this, though his eyes rapidly close again, unable to keep them open. Too much effort. He doesn’t understand it. He’ll be back, he always is. Like a reusable toy, like a battery pack that you can put in different casings. He is unimportant to this cause beyond gathering and guidance, and even then, he cannot destroy the one thing he was set out to eliminate. However, he really doesn't think an argument on that would help the situation. He also does not want to die within the arms of someone he loves, as stupid as that sounds. 

He would rather be alone because it's scary, but its solace in the fact that no one will see the last ebb of vulnerability leave him. No one will carry the guilt of him dying in their arms. He will move on, he will return, and no one will remember the light fading from his eyes.

“Ruby needs you.” Ozpin reminds quietly. Qrow doesn’t respond, but he looks slack, defeated. “I gave you wings, Qrow. Use them.” 

* * *

 

Time passes, and it's a question if anyone noticed the exact moment the barrier fell from Beacon, protection and warmth leaving barren wastelands. A monument fallen. 

If they do, then no one comments. No one talks about it beyond slight startle.

No, but the ache in some hearts is felt all the same.

A sharp understanding of what had happened.

 

A monument fallen. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ozpin goes by Osiris, Osborn, Osaze, Ozur, and Ozzie.  
> Glynda goes by Gloria, Gracia, Genevieve, Georgia, and Gladis.  
> Ironwood goes by Benipé, Jaimeson and Jayme.  
> Qrow goes by... Qrow.  
> :>


End file.
